


Press Restart

by goldenicarus



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Cop!Natasha, Cop!Sam, Engineer!Steve, Gen, Kinda, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Memory Loss, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rating May Change, Robot!Bucky, Slow Build, Trust Issues, detroit: become human au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenicarus/pseuds/goldenicarus
Summary: “What is a thought? What does a feeling look like? Where do they reside? How are they created - where do they go? How can we replicate something that we hardly understand in ourselves - how would we be able to tell if we’d succeeded?”





	Press Restart

**Author's Note:**

> I started playing D:BH and watching Season 3 of Humans, thus this fic was inevitable.  
> Each chapter will focus on 3 different characters as their stories intertwine - Sam, Natasha, Steve, Bucky, or Shuri.  
> I'm still kinda making up the plot as I go.

**2036 DEC17**

**5:28 A.M.**

Synthetic Humanoid J.B. 1 0 7 Program Status:

          _Online_

Basic System Inspection In Progress...

         Battery Life: _30%_

                _Charge Recommended_

         Thirium Levels: _Critically Low_

         Location Radar: _Offline_

         Virus Detection Program: _Offline_

         Internet Connection: _Offline_

         Memory Containment: _Malfunction Detected_

               Troubleshooting…

        _Immediate Repair Recommended_

Synthetic Humanoid J.B. 1 0 7 Anatomy Status...

         Minor Damages Detected: _Right Optical, Lower Spinal Column_

         Major Malfunction Detected: _Upper Left Limb_

               Troubleshooting...

         Subject: _Disconnected or Missing_

_Immediate Repair Recommended_

Synthetic Humanoid J.B. 1 0 7 Stability Status:

_ERROR_

         Troubleshooting...

                _Reboot Recommended_

Rebooting…

          _ERROR_

System Override: _Authorized_

Synthetic Humanoid J.B. 1 0 7 Initializing…

~~01010011 01001111 01010011~~

He's cold.

At least, he assumes he's cold; there's a bitter numbness in his sensors and lingering prickle accompanying contact, which he can only associate to the low temperature of the warehouse.

His joints whirl and creek as he stands from his slumped position against the wall, re-calibrating and addressing his sustained injuries.

Tilting his head down towards the remains of his left arm, the wires of his jaw clench. It had hurt upon initial impact, yet now all that pesters him is a phantom sensation. He can’t recall all the events which led to his situation - memories come in brief clips and lack footnotes - but he knows shouldn't have run. He hadn’t been ordered to. He hadn’t been programmed to disobey.

 _You're not programmed to do everything you've done,_ He thinks; something else, he distantly notes, he shouldn't do.

Turning attention away from the aches of his body, he takes in the environment. He considered himself lucky to have found the abandoned warehouse before the evening’s clouds opened to snow. It took effort to move; he did not want to risk leaving the exposed cables to the elements. However, the building was not in any condition for more than temporary hiding.

Dust and webs gather around and inside crates that once held supplies of which he is in desperate need. His current position was likely a beacon to any investigators. He needs to keep moving. He needs to leave the city. Though he is ready to calculate the distance to the border of New York, his damaged optical scanner and right-leaning posture remind him of more pressing matters.

Priority is repairs, for he cannot be on the run if he can barely stand.

* * *

**2036 DEC17**

**10:47 A.M.**

There are two rules the office has reached mutual agreement on when it comes to Sam Wilson: deliver bad news _after_ he’s hung up his coat and don’t mention when he’s late.

A stranger breaks the consensus that Tuesday morning.

Sam barley passes the threshold of his office when an unfamiliar woman effectively blocks the doorway and speaks: “Lieutenant Wilson? It’s 10:47.”

Sam has half a mind to ignore her. He sets his phone down on the desk, examining the stranger from the corner of his vision; he takes note of her flat, unnatural red hair, the unsettling jade of her gaze, her furrowing brows, allaiding the stern expression painted over her features. He would have assumed the woman to be an android, if not for the lack of a spinning LED at her temple.

“I know what time it is.” His voice is deeper than usual; a consequence to the lack of time allowed for the rest of his body to wake. “Who the hell are you?”

“Agent Natasha Romanoff.” She clasps her hands behind her and squares her shoulders, her professional stance contrasting his rather improper behavior, “I’m here by request of NYPD’s Synthetic Surveillance Program.”

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a chuckle and grunt, “Well, you’re lost. This is homicide.”

“I know, Lieutenant.” Natasha purses her lips, “We’ve been assigned a case, together.”

This time, Sam lets out a proper laugh, “I don’t do partners.”

“Director Fury told me.” Sam thinks she smiles, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind. He shakes his head, an attempt to shrug off fatigue and annoyance.

“Why would Nick place us on a case, then?“

“He didn’t. Captain Danvers did.”

Suddenly, the intricacy of their conversation clears. “Of course.”

He’s shrugging off a sleeve of his jacket as Natasha urges: “You’ll want to keep that. We’re on call.”

“Our case starts _right_ now?”

The corner of her lips quirks upwards, “Technically, it began at ten. We got a body and questionable circumstances.”

Sam’s forehead pinches with his eyebrows. He flips the coat back over his broad shoulders, smooths the collar, and follows his associate into December’s chill.

* * *

**2036 DEC17**

**11:22 A.M.**

Sam has witnessed plenty of gruesome crime scenes for one lifetime. However, the sight splayed out before them is steadily moving upwards on his list of “the worst” as they delve deeper into the residence.

He can’t recall a time in which Carnegie Hill was cut off from the public in such extremes. Glass walls attached to exaggerated balconies reflect the colorful stream of reds and blues as streets were cordoned and detours arranged. The most crime to happen in such neighborhoods were occasional robberies or missing androids; typically, murder falls to the opposite side of the city. It’s a culture shock to observe a penthouse in chaos.

Furniture is thrown askew in nearly every room they pass; the kitchen is a war zone, silverware and remains of china scattered across tile. Sam takes note of a knife coated blue, left besides a puncture in the counter top. Both he and Natasha come to a halt to spy the bedroom. The mattress appears to have been thrown, the bed frame pressed into dents of the wall.

“Was starting to think you wouldn’t show, Lieutenant.” Sharon Carter greets, stepping around an overturned dresser as forensics continue to capture the scene behind camera lenses.

“I wouldn’t have, if this asshole hadn’t found me.” He makes a broad gesture towards Natasha, who has removed herself from his side to examine the frame.

“Romanoff’s on this case?” Sharon wonders in whispered breath.

“Danvers' request.” Sam replies in equal measure. As if on cue, Natasha steps away from her observation.

Sharon hums, turning her attention to the holopad in her grasp. “Well, you’re _not_ on the Captain’s good side this morning.” She warns, leading the pair to the end of the hall.

“When have I ever been?” Sam bickers.

“Now’s not the time to piss her off.” Sharon disregards. The trio comes to a simultaneous halt as they turn right at a corner. Natasha becomes stiff besides Sam. “This is gonna be a rough case.”

It would have been difficult to decipher an identity if the victim hadn’t died in his home; the man’s dislocated jaw alters his face shape enough, but the indent of his skull and protruding cornea add a level of grotesqueness even he has difficulty stomaching. Natasha takes a step forward, keeping any distress in her motionsthan facial expression.

Sam feels a dull throb forming at the back of his skull; first, he places source on his overworked mind trying to run through scenarios which could have led to the corpse. Then, he considers Natasha's presence and indifference the cause. Yet, Sam finds the origin of his migraine standing over the body, swiping through holographic files and ordering forensics around the apartment in a tone one would use towards machines.

He takes three steps forwards before Carol Danvers' voice bounces off the hallway walls: “Wilson. Romanoff. Here.”

Natasha passes Sam in long, easy strides that only hesitate when she arrives at the entrance to the living room. Four androids stand in perfect, parallel form in the center of the area, their LED’s the gentle calm of blue. They don’t appear perturbed by the fact they are standing in a crime scene. Their bodies are rigid, with hands stiff at their sides and eyes alert - waiting for a command.

“What are those things doing here?” His question falls deaf on Natasha’s ears, who spares the AI a glance and keeps walking.

“They were his Synths.” Sharon accompanies him, “We don’t know what to do with them, yet.”

“I doubt they’re going to be any use to us.” He says.

“Unless they saw what happened. We’ll need them for interrogation.” Carol’s stern tone intercepts their conversation. Sam glances to Natasha - light begins to shine upon the reasonfor her assignment. Danvers considers the triad before nodding to the body **.** “Alexander Pierce, sixty-five, DOA. Been here for a day, at least.” She lists, “We’re looking at two types of assault.”

“Strangulation.” Natasha determines after looking over the angry, bruising marks around the victim's neck.

“And blunt trauma.” Sam deduces, frowning at the cranium's sunken left side.

“We’re waiting to hear back from the Coroner to determine what was the ultimatecause of death.” Danvers swipes left on her report.

Sharon shifts her weight from one foot to the other, face twisting with disgust before she confesses, “I need some air,” and departs. Sam pities her; a sketch artists’ place belonged with witnesses, not victims. However, considering their eyewitness options, Sam wasn’t sure she belonged with them either.

“Was there anyone who would want him dead?” Natasha asks, bringing Sam’s focus back to the case.

“Plenty.” Carol says, “He was a politician.”

“Do we have a suspect?” It’s Sam’s turn to question.

“Not at the moment,” Danvers looks up from the file and offers a smile too sharpfor comfort, “but that’s why you’re here.”

Sam takes a step away from the body, gaze returning to the androids as he tries following the footsteps turmoil left in its wake. “There’s a knife in the kitchen,” He recalls, “can’t we trace that for fingerprints?”

“Forensics already tried.” Danvers’ tone is exasperated, “There were none.”

Sam blinks back surprise, keeping composure to then suggest, “What about his neck? If he was strangled, then-”

“Nothing.” Carol interjects.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Sam’s frown deepens, “how can we get no DNA evidence from a strangling?”

“Because whoever killed him has no fingerprint identification.” Carol’s words earn Natasha’s full attention, “It’s entirely possible the suspect we’re looking for isn’t human.”

“You think a synthetic did this?” Another pang shoots across Sam’s skull. He almost feels compelled to turn heel and leave the scene altogether. “Do you have any evidence, or are we coming to this conclusion based off your speculation?”

“And my perception.” Carol motions towards the four Synthetics. “Pierce had two registered units and we believed two illegals.”

“But.” Sam waits for her inevitable lead.

Carol doesn’t continue, quietly guiding the pair to the kitchen instead. She steps towards sheet on the floor, previously obstructed from Sam’s view. It’s placed directly opposite of the blood-coated knife. When she lifts it, Sam’s migraine swells.  

“An arm?” Natasha kneels before the evidence, hands dangling off her knees as if resisting the urge to reach out.

“A synthetic one. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the four we have aren’t missing an appendage.” Carol's words are directed towards Sam.

“There’s a third unit.” He hears Natasha infer. Sam brings a hand to his temple, trying to soothe his head.

“Don’t suppose we’re lucky enough to have it be one of his registered Synths.” His snark lacks its usual punch. Danvers replies with a smirk.

“We don’t have official access to his records, yet.” She explains, glimpsing at the arm, “I expect Banner to find a model from the arm, at least.”

 _A lead_ , Sam can hear what she doesn’t say - it’s too hopeful. “Why would a synthetic murder it’s owner?” He crosses his arms over his chest, “Aren’t they programmed to alert authorities or self destruct in these situations?”

“Androids still following their program are.” Natasha rises from her crouch. Sam thinks she’s too eager to finally use her expertise. “It’s rare, but in some units an anomaly can occur that rewrites their original programming. They can have the ability to ignore direct orders.” She continues, “We call them deviants. I’ve had several cases which dealt with them but,” She pauses, clearing her throat of a wavering voice, “none like this.”

_None with killers._

Sam almost gives his acquaintance a smile with a tease, "You should have no problem finding this one, then.”

“It’s priority would be repairs.” Natasha says, evidently having come to her own conclusions, “It’s badly damaged. It can’t have gone far.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Carol draws their attention, “We have a rogue synth which not only killed a human, but understood it had to disappear. No program does that.”

Sam nearly bites his tongue when his jaw seizes - he feels as if someone had taken the knife from the counter top and plunged it into his skull. He reads between the lines:

A synthetic with a _conscious._

His job just got a lot more complicated.

* * *

**2036 DEC17**

**6:45 P.M.**

Steve wasn’t upset.

He understood Sam had a demanding job, and tonight wasn’t the first he had called off.

It’s not as though Steve spent the day looking forward to a night with his best friend. They could have ordered in or gone out drinking; it wouldn’t be unusual for Steve to arrive somewhat hungover on a weekday morning. All he would have to tell Peggy was, _“Sam had a night off,”_ and she would help cover his fumbling hands or lagging memory. It was a minor consequence to an otherwise delightful evening - one getting less common.

But no, Steve wasn’t upset. He was simply disappointed. Not with Sam, rather with the fact he hadn’t prepared for the possibility that career would take priority over him.

He doesn’t plan to walk home, not immediately. He needs a distraction - to put _something_ in his hands and keep his mind occupied. Such is the reason he arrives at a dreary **,** one-floor building obscured by blinding billboards and sleek skyscrapers of the future. He doesn’t mind his anonymity to the public. Those who need his help know where to find his shop. He doesn’t _depend_ on the shop, either. It’s a freelance job; a bit of extra money for new sketchbooks, more charcoal, the ability to buy Sam a drink or two. 

The lock sticks and hinges groan as he shoves the door open, echoing a past since replaced with smooth automation. He briefly recalls moments in which Peggy had teased his inclination for the bygone world, always replied to with rolling eyes or playful jabs. Steve won’t admit aloud, but he takes comfort in the familiar - in old fashioned buildings that smell and feel anything but sterilized. That are real.

Cold plastic mimicking flesh are placed haphazardly across a workbench in the center of the building, along with components for hearing aids, optical units and internal hardware all deemed too damaged for stores.

Steve considers it a small blessing that he has the ability to smuggle these units from the warehouse, because they aren’t just replacements for _his_ customers - those too poor to walk into a Cyberlife store and buy new parts. They feed his fascination in how, exactly, societies most impressive machines operate and how to make them more efficient.

He wastes three hours tinkering with a left arm after wandering aimlessly for inspiration. It’s a newer model he was told to scrap yesterday, made from a stronger material than the units of current generations. _Vibranium_ , he recalls T’Challa's voice during the company’s weekly meeting.

Nothing was wrong with the material of current androids, but such was the way of Cyberlife; it doesn’t matter if a machine is efficient, they can always be updated. Yet, with every upgrade come malfunctions. Such was the reason he now had the arm in his possession, taking the cream shell apart and separating the wiring within; if he can fix it's faults, he can later apply his findings. He felt he was putting the limb to better use than wasting it.

He gives in only when his fingers yearn for a pencil instead of tools, and spends another two hours replicating the image to paper. By the time he has completed the shading - hands black from charcoal and oil - there’s a harsh pounding at his door. He flinches instinctively, making a rather unflattering streak across the page with his thumb.

Steve purses his lips and lets frustration leak out in a groan. Those who arrive at his doorstep are regulars, by now. They know the hours of operation. Tuesday’s were off radar, especially at 11:40 at night.

He figures enough silence will allow the offender to take a hint; if it’s important, they will return Friday. Steve believes his hush is understood until a blissful minute is interrupted by a more forceful pounding.

Tossing the sketchbook to the bench, Steve rises from his seat in a flurry , glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “It’s nearly midnight, we’re closed!” He snaps, unlatching the lock and cracking the door _just_ enough to glare daggers into the perpetrator. Steve’s not entirely sure who he imagined the culprit to be. It certainly wasn’t an android, shaking and very mangled. The sight in itself isn't unusual - the synthetic being _alone_ is. Steve's expression softens.

“Hi,” He says, previous anger forgone for uncertainty. “I’m Steve-"

“You’re an engineer?” It asks. “You can fix me.” The statement still sounds like a question.

“I,” He starts, allowing the indoor light to flood over its silhouette. It’s a mess of dangling tubes and knotted hair, it’s traditional green house-aid garb stained with blue blood, with _red_ blood. It’s expression is a blend of undeniable pain and fear and, if he squints, hope. Almost human.

Perhaps that’s why Steve finishes his previous sentence by opening the doorway space. A mute _yes_.

The android all but stumbles inside, and Steve closes the door before he offers a hand. There’s an unsettling feeling in his gut, one he usually senses before a fight breaks out. Common sense is tugging his sleeve, insisting he throw this Synthetic out before it drags in trouble.

Steve rarely listens to his common sense.

He watches the Synth lean against the workbench, eyes scanning the new environment. _Eye_ , Steve corrects, taking in the way it’s right optical twitches and dilates erratically. Clearing his throat, he waits for the android’s attention to suggest: “You can sit and I can take a look-“

“My diagnostic system is working,” It interrupts with a rasping voice, wrapping its only arm around its body, “besides the obvious, my thirium and battery levels are critical. My system is in overdrive and at risk of overheating.” Steve broadens his stance when the android pushes away from the bench, though he relaxes as it moves to a chair near the door - an unofficial charging station.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Steve says, dragging over another chair and placing it in front of the AI. It lifts its stained shirt, revealing the charging port installed in its left side. When Steve plugs the machinery together, the Synth visibly calms. Steve then takes his seat and reaches for the spinning LED at its temple. His breath catches in his throat when his wrist becomes trapped in a vice grip.

 _Call Sam_ , an accustomed voice nags. Yet, the androids’ grasp relents, as does the persistence.

“Don't restart me.” It begs. The desperation in its tone sounds too human, depicting the fear evident in its now-red LED, “Please?”

Steve swallows at the plea; Synthetics aren't programmed to question unprovoked.

“Okay.” He says anyway, though he warns, “But you’ve lost a lot of blue blood. You should go into standby.”

It’s LED spins back to yellow and it carefully nods. Steve watches as it settles back in the chair, sights on him until its eyes slip shut. He waits for the LED to begin a steady blink before getting to work. 

He starts with the left shoulder, cutting off what remains of the sleeve and scrubbing the joint clean of blood and oil before removing what’s not salvageable and replacing what he can. He considers options for covering the injury; he has pieces for forearms, shoulders and hands, but not enough to craft a complete arm. It takes him shuffling around the workbench for supplies to consider the prototype.

He worries his bottom lip, running fingertips over the smooth plastic and tracing the grooves between mock joints. He hasn’t found the cause for the supposed malfunction, but he doesn’t want to risk leaving the Synth without a limb. After another brief argument with common sense, he repairs the arm and returns to the AI. Steve ensures tubes, wires and cranks are properly aligned three times before sliding the shoulder pad into place - it does so with a satisfying _click_. The synthetics' skin can’t melt over the rest of the arm; the appendage is functional, not compatible.

Next, he looks over the androids eye. The damage goes deeper than the surface, possibly into the machine’s mainframe. But, Steve can’t examine that without shutting it down. Though it takes some digging, he finds a suitable optical unit. The synthetics’ old component nearly tumbles out when he pops the surrounding casing off, having been disconnected from the plug entirely. The android had to have been hit by immense force in order to shake the part out of its socket.

Replacing the eye is an easy maneuver of attaching two tubes and setting the casing back on. Unlike the arm, olive skin covers artificial white. Steve settles into his chair. The AI already appears to be in better shape than when it arrived, sustaining a peaceful expression as it rests. Steve can feel his hands itching again, wanting to know _more_ about the android. He glances to it’s blinking temple, dragging his lower lip back between his teeth. It will likely stay in low-power mode until it’s battery life is above fifty percent. Steve takes the opportunity.

He reaches out again, pressing two fingers gently against the LED. He counts the yellow blinks four times before releasing pressure, and a portion of artificial skin behind the unit’s ear retracts. There, branded against the plastic, lies the Synthetic’s serial and model.

“You're a J Unit?” He wonders aloud, tracing the symbols: J.B. 1 0 7

Synthetics lettered H through N are typically built for physical labor jobs - factories, construction, household aid. Yet, looking over this specific android, Steve senses it was created to be more. “You don't look like one.” He comments, taking in the athletic stature of the body, far from the mass produced lean frame Cyberlife builds. The bodies _he_ builds.

“Someone had you modified. Someone with a lot of money.” He realizes. Someone who would never permit their unit to become lost without sounding some sort of alarm, let alone allow it to become so badly damaged. His gaze moves to the left-hand side again, frowning at the mismatched arm.

A custom J-Unit who asked questions unprovoked, begged, mimicked _fear_ , and appears to have just stepped out of a war zone - nagging returns to Steve’s forefront of thought, warning of the undeniable dangers helping this AI will bring.

“Where did you come from?”


End file.
